Maldagra Hartwood and the Kindling of Magic
by Dr. Elemenohpee
Summary: It's Harry Potter all over again! Minus every single character from Harry Potter. Dag Hartwood is turning eleven soon, and unforeseen surprises lurk around the corner. The adventure starts all over again in the same world - where nothing is the same.
1. Prologue

**Hello, fancy meeting you here! Welcome to my newest fic, and enjoy the ride. This is a Harry Potter Fanfic, but has nothing to do with any of the characters from the Harry Potter series. This story uses completely different, new, unique characters that I have created, and tells about THEIR story in the very same wizarding world that we have all come to love. This prologue has nothing much to do with the early parts of the story, so don't let this odd little snippet turn you away. There will be Hogwarts, and wands, and owls, and all that other stuff that we all associate with Harry Potter - but remember, Harry Potter and co. never even existed in my story. Updates about once every week, fluctuating based on how much homework i have. See you around,**

**Your ever so humble writer,  
Happyface**

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"Dodders, hand me my towel," commanded a tall, thin man standing over a gleaming white sink, his face dripping.

"Right away, sire." A slight, hunched figure scurried toward his master, clenching a thick, fuzzy looking towel in his bony fist. The tall man swiped the towel straightaway from his trembling servant, and proceeded to dry himself.

His face enfolded in the fluffy cloth, the man's voice came out muffled, as he said, "Are the preparations finished, Dodders?"

"Yes sire, most definitely ready, sire, all finished," bumbled Dodders, now hanging up the rather damp towel on a gold bar protruding from the shiny marble of the wall, surrounded by portraits of pompous looking men dressed in expensive suits.

"That was a yes or no question, Dodders," sighed his master, pulling an ivory comb from within the fold of his blue velvet robe, "and did not require reassurance, nor three different ways of saying 'yes.'

"Of course sire, sorry sire, won't happen again," replied the small servant hastily.

"Too late," muttered the robed man, finishing the careful grooming of his hair and placing the comb beside him on the shining vanity.

Dodders mumbled under his breath as he backed out of the room, tripping over his own feet along the way.

Alone at last, the man in the blue velvet robe, with the immaculately placed hair – dark, straight, and black – turned his eyes slowly to the mirror in front of him. His piercing, sapphire-blue eyes stared out at him; flat, perfect eyebrows perched atop, like birds of prey poised to attack. A pointed nose led down to his mouth – a hard, thin line, cold lips pressed firmly together. He stood like that, staring at himself in the mirror, as if it were a different person, for a long, long time.

Suddenly the eyes softened, the birds of prey pulled back, the mouth slackened, and a great sigh escaped those guarded lips. "What have you gotten yourself into, Maldagra?" The words were little more than a whisper, a plea to no one in particular, save perhaps himself.

He thought back to when it had all started, the one foolish act that had dragged him into the whole mess. Back when he was innocent. Back when he was but a child, before his life had been changed forever. Before he had found out about magic. Or, more accurately, before magic had found out about him.


	2. Twenty Years Previous

**Hello everybody! First chapter is up because I finished, second chapter won't be up for at least another week, my apologies.  
All reviews _GREATLY_ appreciated. Heavy emphasis on _GREATLY_. :) See you guys around!**

**Your humble writer,  
****Happyface**

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A small child, a boy of perhaps ten years of age, sat quietly at his desk, fidgeting with his pencil and waiting for the teacher to arrive. The other children were speaking in loud, uncontrolled voices, discussing the latest video game, or their not-quite-finished homework, and in some cases their not-quite-started homework.

The door to the classroom creaked along its hinges, but it was not the teacher who entered. Another student, a classmate – very nearly late – rushed to his desk, plopping himself and his books onto the desk with a thunk. Turning to the fidgety boy on his left, he breathed a hello, still panting from his mad rush to avoid being late. The boy to his left did not reply, not even acknowledging his arrival.

With a roll of his eyes, the very-nearly-late boy turned to the front of the room, arranging his notebooks on his desk until satisfied. "You know," he said sarcastically, "anyone would think you've taken a vow of silence, the way you're being." No answer. He drew a breath for another attempt at conversation, but just then the door hinges creaked again, and this time it was no student who entered.

The teacher was young, in her late twenties, and wore a crisp baby-blue button-down shirt, with a matching skirt and socks. On her ears were sparkling, miniature moons, crescent-shaped and silver. Her shoes had small heels, were blue in color, and without any designs. She set her bag down on the large oak desk at the front of the room, taking from one of its pockets a small stick of white chalk.

"Good morning, children," greeted the way-too-matching teacher in a sweet, singsong voice.

"Good morning Miss Quinnalill," chorused the children in a way that made it sound as if they went through this every day. They probably did.

A blond, pudgy girl in the front row waved her hand in the air, looking to all the world as if she sitting on a snapping turtle that was on fire.

"Yes, Meg?" said the teacher, her honey coated voice flowing across the room.

"Umm, Miss Q, I heard that, maybe, well, that you maybe aren't coming back after the next weekend," finished the girl, nervously shifting back and forth in her seat. Heads were nodding – the other children had apparently also heard this rumor.

Miss Q smiled sweetly at the little girl. "I don't know where you get such a silly idea from, Meg. If I were going to leave, I would have told you all." A collective sigh of relief could be heard from the majority of the students, while two groans escaped from two boys sitting next to each other, whose small hopes were dashed. The teacher glared pointedly at the smaller boy on the left. "Mr. Hartwood," spoke Miss Q, her voice turning icy. "Is there something bothering you that you would like to share with the class?"

"No, Miss Quinnalill," the boy replied, spitting out her last name like a piece of tough steak.

Miss Q turned her frozen gaze from the disruptive student, returning her attention to the class. "Today, children," she sang, her voice once again flowing honey, "are you all ready for a day of learning?" Her plastic smile plastered to her plastic face, Miss Q proceeded with the lesson, sowing boredom upon two specific students doodling the endless time away.

The time _was _endless. There was no way that six torturous hours could take as long as they did. Six hours should not feel like an entire week; it was unnatural. Many unnatural things were about to happen within the week, to be sure.

Finally, the unending hours dwindled to nothing, granting the students their freedom at last. 'Mr. Hartwood' and his companion rocketed out the door, flinging it open, and ran as fast as their little legs could carry them. They stopped only once the ugly yellow building that held them for six hours a day was out of sight.

"Are you talking again?" asked the bigger of the two boys, slowing to a walk beside his friend.

"Maybe," said the other boy airily.

"So you are talking!" His friend smirked, brushing his mass of silky, dirty-blond hair out of his eyes. "I knew you would," he declared triumphantly.

"I said maybe." The small black haired boy laughed nonetheless, his huge smile lighting up his eyes. The two friends set off at a run again with odd threats of something about an egg to whoever was last to get to their destination.


	3. Idiots, Metaphors, and Figures of Speech

**Hello again. Chapter two is on time, woot! All Upcoming mention of Harry-Potter-like-magic (though there's none in this chapter, not yet, sorry) belongs to J. K. Rowling, and all mention of Oreos belongs to whatever company came up with them. Wonderful people they must be. Enjoy! See you around,**

**Your ever so humble author,  
Happyface **

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**Idioms/Idiots, Metaphors, and Figures of Speech**

They sat in a barely lit room, at a polished wooden table; cups of milk on their right, and a box of Oreos on their left.

"I'm so hungry I could eat a cow," exclaimed the blond boy on the right, happily chomping away on a milk-sodden cookie.

"Then why are you eating a cookie?" His slight, black-haired friend had a puzzled look on his face.

"Well, I can't _actually_ eat a cow!"

"Then why'd you say you could?" This wasn't making any sense to the confused boy.

"It's a figure of speech, sheesh. You know, like 'Money doesn't grow on trees.'"

"Of _course_ it doesn't! What're you saying, Cem?"

Cemeland North sighed. Dag had always taken things so literally – it was hard to explain these kinds of things to him. "It's just something you say to make a point. Like, because I was really hungry, I said that I could eat a cow, even though I actually can't. I was exaggerating, but it gets across the point – that I'm really hungry."

…

…

"Then why didn't you just say 'I'm really hungry?'" observed Maldagra, perplexed.

"Cuz, it just doesn't sound the same, Dag!" Cemeland had an exasperated look on his face – they'd gone through this sort of thing before.

"Of course it doesn't sound the same, if you just out and say it then you actually come across as sane! If my mom came walking through the door, telling me she could eat a cow, I'd think she was completely psycho!" He looked like he was trying very hard to control himself. And failing, too; he got very worked up about things like this.

"Who's completely psycho, Dag? Hello Cemeland, enjoying your snack I see." A small woman in her mid-thirties, Amelaine Hartwood had flowing black hair that cascaded down her back in waves and curls, not a straight hair to be found. Amelaine was rather like her hair, her husband always said.

Speak of the devil. As her son started to explain what had prompted him to call her 'completely psycho,' her husband appeared at the entrance to the room, a little girl hanging onto his leg. "Hello Laine, dear," he greeted, a smile on his wide, tan face. He walked towards his wife, daughter in tow, and wrapped her in a hug. The boys, at the table, made puking faces at each other.

"How was your day, Nathan?" Mrs. Hartwood disentangled herself from her husband. "Was Kat any trouble at the nursery?" The girl looked up at the mention of her name.

"Trouble? This beautiful princess couldn't be trouble if she tried!" exclaimed Mr. Hartwood loudly, picking up his daughter and swinging her around. She giggled, enjoying the ride.

"Oh, she tries all right," muttered Dag, rolling his eyes. He was pointedly ignored.

"Isn't that right, Katherine?" his dad said to Kat. Another giggle sufficed as a reply. Mr. Hartwood was the only one who called both his son and daughter by their full names; everyone else just called them Dag and Kat.

Mrs. Hartwood announced that she was going into the kitchen to prepare dinner, but not before instructing her son to make sure that he cleaned up after himself and Cemeland. She then told her husband to 'change Kat's diaper, something seems to have died in there by the smell of it,' and with that she was off to the kitchen.

"Well hello Maldagra, son, how was school today?" said Mr. Hartwood happily.

"The usual. How was work?" asked Dag, trying to change the subject. His father would not be so easily tricked.

"That bad, eh?" his father replied with a knowing grin. Dag grunted, stuffing the plastic bag of Oreos into the cardboard box, and jamming the whole thing in the pantry. "Let's leave your grumpy brother alone, Katherine," whispered his father to his sister, "you've got an appointment with a clean diaper." Kat gurgled in agreement, and followed her father out of the dining room and down the hall, turning right into the room she shared with Dag.

"Hey, Dag," piped up Cemeland, "wanna' go throw around your new frisbee? It wont be dark outside for a while."

"Sure, but we should wipe down the table first, or my mom'll cook up something nasty for me. For dinner, I mean."

Cemeland brushed the crumbs from the tabletop into the garbage, while Dag cleared their cups and plates, bringing them into the kitchen, and placing them in the dishwasher. We should go to the park, it's perfect for frisbee," suggested Dag, walking back into the dining room, where Cemeland was replacing the garbage can in its rightful spot by the wall.

"Great idea," Cemeland agreed. "Hey, are we using the yellow one or the other one – forgot what color that one is."

"No, the yellow one, it's in the basement, next to the workshop window," directed Dag.

Dag was allowed his own room in the basement for his tinkering – the taking apart (and putting back together) of printers, televisions, computer monitors, car engines, and more – appropriately nicknamed the 'Boom Boom' room by Kat.

After retrieving the frisbee, Cemeland and Dag headed out the back door, Dag yelling over his shoulder, telling his father where they were going.

"Be back for dinner!" yelled Mr. Hartwood screamed as the back door slammed shut.


	4. Playing With Kindling

**Back with Chapter Three - Playing With Kindling. And so soon after Chapter Two! For those of you thirsting for magic - well, the fun begins here. It's a rather short chapter, but sets many things in motion, so it is essential - but do not worry! This is only the start, much more magical happenings are to come, rest assured. Hope you enjoy the latest installment!**

**Your ever so humble writer,**  
**Happyface**

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**Playing With Kindling  
**

"You think we can get it down?" questioned Cemeland skeptically. The frisbee had gotten stuck in the tall, thick yew tree in the center of the park. Dag gazed up into the sunlight, spotting the yellow disc somewhere near the top. Wordlessly, he began to climb the tree, hoisting himself up through the canopy of green.

"What are you doing, Dag! That's not safe – you could get seriously hurt! Come DOWN!" No answer. Dag could no longer be seen, having climbed too high, and blocked by the mass of leafy branches. "Come on, Dag, _please_ get down." Sixty seconds ticked slowly by. The branches and leaves rustled, and a slightly scratched frisbee dropped onto the ground in front of a surprised Cemeland.

Dag jumped down next to his prize, dirty and covered in twigs, but grinning from ear to ear. "And _that's_ how it's done," he said, laughter in his voice.

"You have done it! You hath saved the frisbee in distress!" cried out Cemeland, as if announcing the winner of some tournament. "Yet your quest is not complete. I will not let you win!"

"En garde!" Dag swiped a fallen branch and poked his friend in the side with its tip.

"Ouch, hey, no fair, I'm not armed," proclaimed Cemeland indignantly, picking up a fencing tool of his own. _Thwack! Whap!_ The two boys battled, stick against stick, until Cemeland fell to his knees, in mock injury. "Oh, you got me," he groaned, flopping onto the grass with his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.

Dag stuck his stick in the ground and claimed his victory, placing one foot on top of his defeated enemy. "I will now take my reward," he told the air, and proceded to do so. He gave Cemeland a noogie.

"Ow, gerroff!" laughed the noogie recipient, struggling to his feet. He yanked Dag's branch from the soil beside him, ready to advance on his weaponless friend. Cemeland stopped midstep, starring curiously at the piece of wood in his hand. Where before there had been dry, flaking bark, the branch was glossy – as if still a part of the tree itself – and small flower buds had appeared all along it.

"What is it, Cem?" questioned Dag, wondering why his adversary had come to a halt.

Cemeland beckoned a confused Dag over. "Take a look at this, Dag, I think the dead branch isn't so dead anymore. It's growing, see?" He showed Dag the small green buds on the stick.

Dag examined it, turning it over in his hands. "I know there weren't any flower things on it when I first picked it up – and it wasn't this color, either."

"Maybe it's a different branch," suggested Cemeland.

"No, this is the one, but how did it happen?" The puzzled boys tossed around a few more ideas, discarding them just as quickly. Shrugging, Cemeland suggested they start back to the house, or risk being late for dinner. They walked out of the park discussing the upcoming last few weeks of school, and what they were going to do in when summer came.

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After dinner – spinach soufflé and cream of mushroom soup, followed by a moist chicken salad as the second course – Cemeland walked home, right down the block, and Dag was told it was time to go to sleep. The key word there being 'told.' For although he was _told_ to go to sleep, he went somewhere that definitely could _not_ be defined as sleep.

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Under the cover of night, a small pajama-clad boy – stooped low and shooting furtive glances over his shoulder every few seconds – made his way across a stretch of grass in the direction of a giant, motionless tree. Using only the light of the crescent moon, the boy searched around the trunk of the tree for something specific, picking up and throwing away twigs and braches from the soft grassy ground. Apparently satisfied with the newest branch, he stuffed it under his jacket and scurried out of the park. Two owls, perched high in the ancient branched of the yew tree, observed the scene in silence. One of them – a dark brown owl with distinctive white markings among its head feathers – gave a soft hoot, and the pair launched themselves into the deep blue-black sky, sending a shower of leaves fluttering down through the inky darkness.

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**The way in which Dag uses his magic in the early stages is akin to the way we saw Lily use her magic in Snape's memories, in J. K. Rowling's most awesomest Book Seven of the Harry Potter series. Which means, he uses it without really being in need of it - Harry, on the other hand, only showed magic in times of need. Just to clear any confusion right up :) See you next time!**


	5. To Kindle Life

**Magic, MWAHAHAHA. And the fun begins! This chapter starts it all, ladies and gentlemen, this is what you've all been waiting for! (It is, admit it). I have, as you may have noticed, changed my name - I shall henceforth be known as...(drumroll please)...Dr. Elemenohpee! Thank you all so very much, and a special thank you goes to the reviewers: **Anon, Fallessa, Symonona, NewMan, phantompixie, and Anon101.** You guys rock! Chocolates for you all! I appreciate reviews as much as I appreciate a birthday present, so please, keep them coming! Till we meet again!**

**Your changed-but-still-the-same author,**  
**Dr. Elemenohpee**

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**To Kindle Life**

It was Sunday morning, and Dag was bleary-eyed and half asleep. After his midnight excursion on Thursday, he had spent the following two nights awake in his workshop, doing absolutely nothing while staring at the now blossoming branch he had retrieved from the park.

He kept coming up with perfectly plausible reasons as to why the seemingly dead piece of wood had started growing again, but he could not convince himself that it was a natural or even worldly occurrence. And yet, what else could it be? Were some scientists performing experiments in the local park? No that was highly unlikely, probably even illegal – and if there was any type of science out there that could make a dead branch come back to life, he wasn't aware of it. Was it a sign from heaven? That was even more unlikely, thought Dag, _What have I ever done to merit the attention of heaven?_

_This is pointless_, he thought; _no matter what way I try to explain this to myself, I'm just going to push that explanation aside!_

Dag splashed some cold water on his face, trying to wake himself up. It was already eleven-thirty, and everyone else was already up and about. If he wanted to have another look at his living-yet-previously-dead stick before he asked Cemeland over, he'd have to be quick. Excitement coursed through Dag, and he felt something stir inside of him, something he had never felt before. Shuffling down the hallway to the basement stairs, he tripped on something – something soft and crumply – on hard wood floor. Glancing back, Dag's breath caught in his throat. Right behind him, where his foot had just stepped, was a patch of grass. In the middle of the floor. On the floor. Growing out of it.

Does. Not. Compute. Over processing and freezing up, Dag's brain informed him that it was time to faint. And so he did. His unconscious body hit the floor with a soft thud, flattening the small, lonely patch of bright green grass beneath his shoulder.

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Dag opened his eyes. He blinked, rubbed them with the back of his hand, and opened them again.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, shook his head a few times, and opened them yet again.

He blinked _again_, rubbed his eyes _again_, shook his head a few _more_ times, mentally prepared himself, and opened his eyes _for the fourth time_. It was still there.

At his feet stood a two-foot tall creature with large, drooping, bat-like ears, saucer-eyes, a bald wrinkly head, and a rather long nose. Its leathery skin was stretched across its every bone, and it wore a couple of sack-like rags to cover itself. Dag wondered why it wasn't wearing anything more. He wondered why it was here. He wondered how it had gotten into the house. He wondered why it was staring at him.

And deep, _deep_ in the back of his mind, where the sane part of himself resided, he wondered _Am I going insane! Is this really happening? Maybe I'm still unconscious. Wait – maybe that was all a dream too! Okay, let's take it slowly: choice numero uno – I actually am going crazy. Choice numba' two – I'm dreaming. Choice tres – this is an extremely badly timed and uncalled for practical joke that will be regretted. Choice whatever-comes-after-three (can't count straight right now) – I'm dead, and angels are ugly, unless that thing isn't an angel. That's a scary thought – I might not be in heaven, which means that that thing in front of me…No, that's completely illogical, stop thinking like that!_

Maldagra Hartwood tilted his head and took a look around. He was still on the floor, in the hallway, right where he'd fallen after he saw – the grass! Quickly, he twisted around in a half-sitting position, and got a glimpse of the wooden floor behind him. The _wooden_ floor. Devoid of grass. No grass.

Dag flopped onto his back, staring up at the white ceiling. _What is going _on_?_ he screamed to himself. He glanced at the funny-looking creature that was –

It was gone. GONE. Not there. Not present. Absent. Choice one was looking more and more likely, choice two was looking more and more tempting, and he had pretty much ruled out choice three. Although choice two was just as unlikely, in reality. If in fact he was operating in reality, which wasn't all that clear at the moment. So that left choice one. Scary, to say the least.

There was another option, though, which was even crazier that the fact he might be. An option Dag hadn't even considered before, when he'd had other options – though he didn't like to think he was loony, so he considered it now. _Maybe this is real. Maybe it really happened, – I _did_ make a dead branch come alive – maybe I made grass grow from the bare floor. Maybe that weird…thing…that was watching me was_ real_._

He wasn't scared of those thoughts, peculiarly enough. Whether it was all true or not, Dag felt excitement run through him for the first time in an extremely long time. Everything in life had been getting quite boring, and school didn't interest him. It wasn't that he was too smart for school – in fact, he flunked out of his previous school and definitely was not doing too well in the current one either. And it wasn't that he was stupid – he could take apart a washing machine and a car simultaneously, mix up the pieces, and then reassemble them both. It was just that _he wasn't interested_, plain as that. And this was the reason that he had not been genuinely _excited_ about something since he'd been a little kid. Well, littler than he was now, and he'd be eleven before the start of the next school year in mid-September.

And so it was with great and unrestrained enthusiasm that Dag picked himself up, took one more look at where the mysterious patch of grass had been, and marched on down to his Boom Boom room.


	6. To Kindle Hope

**I am oh-so-sorry that this post was late, I was away this past weekend. So here it is, chapter five, more excitement and fun. J.K. Rowling owns a certain creature that will be seen in this chapter, and I own a pack of cards. And I will soon be the proud owner of an iTouch. Woopee! Special, special thank-yous to those who commented. Replies to certain reviews that required replies are at the bottom of this lovely chapter. Enjoy, my most awesomest readers, the story that is unfolding. Please review, it makes my day! Every day! **

**P.S. - **  
** Anybody want a cameo? Your very own character in this story? Fanart and such will reward you thusly. Email me if you have anything of the like.  
**

**Over and out,**  
**The Doctor**

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**To Kindle Hope**

For the next two weeks, every single day after school, Dag spent every single speck of free time in his workshop, wondering about, experimenting with, and staring at his miraculous piece of wood. He laid out the facts he knew, and what he wanted to find out.

The branch was from the gigantic yew tree in the local park; Dag wanted to see if the same thing happened with other branches from different trees, the same tree again, or maybe it was that specific branch only.

The stick had only become alive after he had picked it up and been holding it for a while; he wanted to know what happened if he did the same with another object. (Weird, but he wanted to know.)

It was still alive and flourishing more than two weeks later; he wanted to find out what affected it and why – what if he suffocated it, or set it on fire?

Dag put these questions to the test two days and two weeks after the grass incident, on a warm, sunny Tuesday afternoon – it was always warm and sunny in Florida, especially in June. He took a deja-vu-inducing trip to the park to gather four branches – two from the yew tree, one from a pine tree, and one from an oak. By the time he had arrived back home, brimming with excitement, and set the sticks down on his workshop table, the first experiment had been completed. The two branches of yew glossed over and budded – just as the original had – the pine branch produced a few drips of sap, and the stick of oak grew a small leaf. It was clear that the yew reacted most out of the three types of tree branches he had used – now on to the next experiment.

Dag grabbed a wrench off of the table next to him. He held it for a while. He shook it. He rubbed it like a magic lamp. He sat on it. He held it for a while longer. Nothing happened. He did the same with a piece of sandpaper. Nadda. Here comes the fun part, thought Dag with a maniacal grin.

He didn't want to use the first yew branch – it felt special to him, for some reason – so he took both of the yew branches that had been recently brought 'back to life,' so to speak. He placed one of them inside an airtight container, and on a whim put the container in the kitchen freezer. The other, less fortunate, stick of yew would be the subject of a ten-year old pyromaniac's experiment. Back in his workshop, Dag spilled some of his secret stash of lighter fluid into a dip in the concrete floor. Tossing the branch in the oily, yellowish puddle, he fished out a shiny aluminum lighter from his back pocket. His mother would have a fit if she knew that her husband gave the lighter to her son.

With a click and a flick of the thumb, a bright orange flame appeared at the mouth of the lighter. Dag held the flickering, colorful bit of extremely hot energy to a piece of newspaper, waited till it caught, and then dropped the fiery paper onto the doomed branch.

FWOOM

It was gone in under a minute, ashes smoldering in the concrete bowl. It seemed there was nothing inherently magical about yew branches after all – or at least they weren't fireproof. It was disheartening, really; he had been expecting some fantastic discovery, or maybe a more magical burning-up, if the branch didn't survive the fire. He felt stupid for having hoped for anything like that. He was angry with himself, and angry at the sticks of wood that had let him down. Dag stomped upstairs to dispose of the freezer experiment, ready to throw that stick out of the window.

He yanked open the freezer, grabbed the container with the yew branch inside, and slammed it down on the kitchen table. Prying the lid off, he grabbed the worthless stick, feeling as if it had betrayed him somehow, and hurled it to the floor. It bounced a few feet away, clattering unharmed to a stop. Dag stormed over to it, picked it up, and was about to chuck it at the wall when he noticed something – tiny green buds had burst from underneath the thin layer of frost coating the stick. As he held it, his anger making way for fascination, the buds grew, lengthened, and bloomed all at once. Their small petals unfolded, bringing color to the defrosting branch. The transformation ended. Suddenly Dag became infuriated. Why was this one special, but not the other one, he screamed inside his head. Why is this so confusing! Why doesn't this make any sense?

As these harsh thoughts and emotions coursed through his body, heating his blood, the stick in his hand started to change once again. The flowers shriveled, blackening before falling to the floor. The bark dried and cracked, flaking away in long pieces. And then the stick snapped in two with a loud crack, leaving Dag with a handful of splinters. And so it was with a feeling of déjà-vu that Dag's brain decided that it was once again time to faint. And, like the last time, his body complied.

Thunk. Crack. He fell limply onto the floor, cracking some of the remaining pieces of the destroyed branch.

* * *

Well, this feels familiar, thought Dag with silent sarcasm, blinking his way to consciousness. He was almost completely unsurprised to see the same odd little creature as last time looking at him with curiosity, from down near his feet. Almost, but this time he knew that it was certainly real. So very real. And just a wee bit creepy. Just a tad. And so Dag screamed.

* * *

The small wrinkly being jumped as the boy before him let out a yelp and scrambled to his feet, looking around for something to defend himself with. Not finding one, the boy ran and tripped his way out of the room, thumped down the stairs, and locked himself in the room at the bottom.

The confused house-elf thought that maybe the human was playing a game - like hide-and-seek. Yes, that must be it, he must be hiding, and I have to find him! he thought. With a resounding crack the elf disappeared from in front of the refrigerator and reappeared directly in front of the black-haired boy, in a messy room strewn with various objects. The child jumped again, and made a strange choking noise, his eyes widening.

The elf heard him whispering something under his breath, while wringing his hands. It sounded like 'I'm not gonna faint, I'm not gonna- not gonna- not...I will not faint, I won-won't faint...' The boy was breathing quickly now, with short, shallow inhalations. His eyes were rolling up into his head, as his hands groped for support. Is he going to play dead again? worried the house-elf; but no, he was breathing evenly now, and hoisting himself into a standing position, propping himself up against a nearby table. He looked at the creature in front of him nervously, and opened his mouth to speak.

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**Ooh, cliffhanger, dont'cha just love those?**

**Symonona -  
I am aware of the spanish numbering system, I just wanted him to say "Numba' two," it sounds funny. :) Thanks you for pointing the missing word out in that sentence - it is fixed. The composition of the floor was also a mistake, and has also been fixified. As for that 'final note' of yours: well, if you've read this chapter, I need not say more.**

**ExtremelyLargeValues225 -  
No one is really referring to the room that way except as a cute little nickname. Besides, Kat is like, two-ish, and Dag's only ten himself**


	7. To Kindle Magic

**Hallo, hallo to all. Craziness this chapter- no, wait, correction: _more_ craziness this chapter. But isn't craziness good? Either way, this chapter contains much of it - voluminous amounts, one could say. Largely large thanks to those who commented on last chapter, **phantompixie **and **Fallessa**. Many much chocolates thrown in your (general) direction(s). House-elves belong (in a sense, for they are not truly real) to the most wonderful JKR, and magic belongs to those who can use it! Mwahahaha! (Evil tangent about taking over the world with magic). And guys, there is a poll, in my profile page, where you can vote on what house you want Dag to be in once he goes to Hogwarts! VOTE NOW :D And so, that concludes tonight's program. Please enjoy!**

**The most evillest one,  
Dr. Elemenohpee**

* * *

**To Kindle Magic**

Dag opened his mouth, on the verge of speaking. "Are you, uh, real?" he croaked in the direction of the…the…the thing that was standing in front of him. The thing that had, impossibly, _teleported_ into his workshop from the kitchen.

The elf considered the question. He hadn't been expecting that particular one; it had caught him off guard. He tried to think up something equally profound, and vaguely remembered some famous muggle quote that seemed to fit with the situation rather nicely. "I stink, therefore I am," declared the house-elf in a confident tone, very pleased that he had spoken the quote so accurately, of which he was sure.

"You…you…," the child stammered, gathering his thoughts after the initial surprise of hearing the creature _answer_ him. He realized then what exactly it had said. "You _what!_" he screamed in utter confusion.

_Uh oh, maybe I didn't get that quite right,_ thought the elf. _It is possible – though he's probably just astounded that I am learned in great muggle literature. Either way, I suppose it's time to explain what's going on._ "I was sent to keep you safe from the magic that you cannot yet control, and do what I can for you. Would you like a cup of tea?" Dag stared at him blankly. "Perhaps not. Would you rather a soda pop? I am rather fond of those myself, the bubbles tickle so – marvelous drinks, are they not?" More blankness from the boy in front of him. "Oh goody, two soda pops coming up. What color do you prefer?" Dag opened and closed his mouth a few times. "Brown? Perfect, I wanted that kind too."

"Wait! _Wait, wait, wait_!" Dag was trying to put things in order, but order refused to come. He tried to clear his mind, but his mind resisted, questioning that with which it had been presented. "You did say magic, didn't you?" The creature opposite him nodded enthusiastically. "What do you mean by 'magic.' Do you mean, like, _magic_-magic, or just magic?"

Now the elf was the one with the blank stare. "Eh, just magic? There is no magic but magic, only magic."

"Magic? Not magic-magic? So magic as in 'Wanna see some magic,' and not as in 'there's no such thing as magic?'"

"Of course there's such thing as magic. Magic-magic, magic, magic-magic-magic; whatever you want to call it, it's magic."

"Magic-magic-magic? Never mind. Look, so magic is real?"

"Did we not just establish that?"

"I wasn't sure whether we were talking about magic or magic-magic. So magic is real? Or is it magic-magic?"

"Huh?"

"What were you saying before?"

"About magic? Or magic-magic?"

"About magic – but not like 'magic or magic-magic,' just about magic."

"So you understand that it's magic now."

"That what's magic?"

"Never mind. Let me explain."

And so the elf told the boy that he was a wizard, and that there were many others like him. He told the boy what house-elves were, and introduced himself as one. He performed magic for the boy; by lifting up the table he was leaning on and levitating it five feet off the floor. The boy made an 'o' shape with his mouth when this happened. He spent some time demonstrating more magic, and took requests from the boy, and then explained some more _about_ magic. It was half-an-hour before the boy ran out of questions that the elf could answer.

* * *

Dag was in shock. They were still in his workshop, and the house-elf had taken a seat on a vacant rolling chair. Dag himself had slid to the floor, leaning his back against the leg of a table. _This can't be happening, _he thought, running a hand through his silky black hair.

_Oh, but it is, and you know it,_ argue that annoyingly sane part of his mind, coming out of hibernation.

_Shut up, no one asked you,_ he shot back.

_Au contraire, monsieur, you have subconsciously begged me to help you make sense of this mess. And may I say, what a mess it is._

His sanity was getting on his nerves. _Since when can I speak French, anyway?_

_ You can't._

_ Well thank you for that intricate explanation, I am forever in you debt,_ he replied sarcastically.

The two-sided monologue ended with that, as Dag turned his thoughts to the situation at hand. _Facts, I need more facts. He said he's an elf – a house-elf, whatever that means. So elves are real – and they're not long and graceful, apparently. Magic is real, that has been proven ten times over_ – but to what extent, Dag had no idea.

He spoke hesitantly, almost reluctantly. "So you're saying that I'm…I'm-I'm a wizard? Is that right?"

"Precisely, youngster," the elf replied proudly. "I was sent here this most recent time because your uncle detected strong magical disturbances coming from your house."

"MY UNCLE? _What_ does my _uncle_ have to do with _this_!" Dag was thoroughly baffled. Again. Every time he thought he might be getting a grasp of what was going on, something new and unexpected popped up, and made everything more confusing.

"Young sir," squeaked the house-elf, "your uncle is a most prominent and powerful wizard, widely known for his contribution towards the Wizard-Goblin cause. He is the reason why Diagon Alley is home to one of the largest branches of Gringotts, the famous wizards bank."

The elf was speaking gobble-de-gook. Again. Dag shoved his latest question to the back of his mind, and handed over the reigns to his sane self. "What's your name," Sane Dag asked.

"Forrin, house-elf of the line of Melkor, in service for the last century or so."

"Century? Wait, no, never mind – that doesn't matter. Well, it matters, but not right now. Okay, it does matter now, just not as much as other things." Forrin was staring at him with a weird expression on his face. Dag's sanity retreated, it's pride wounded. Regular Dag returned. "So, um, what now?" _What a lame question. _'What now' _indeed. Well, telling anyone else about this is out of the question, that's a one-way ticket to the room with padded walls. Except…_ "You said my uncle is a wizard. I've known my uncle my whole life, and not once has anything like this come up. I need to talk to him. Can you bring him here?"

"Can I? Am I not an elf, Mr. Hartwood?"

"Is that a trick question?" Forrin ignored him.

"Of course I can bring him here; I'll be back before you can say 'Trolls smell' – and they do.

"Wait! Forrin!" Too late. With the sound of a cannon being fired, the eager little elf was gone, and Dag was left alone with his thoughts, his humbled sanity, and an odd banging noise coming from upstairs. _Banging noise? Uh oh, mom's home._ He quickly unlocked the lock on his workshop door, threw it open, and then realized what was about to happen.

Thump, thump, thump: his mom was headed downstairs.

Crack: his uncle appeared in the room, behind him, with Forrin holding onto his shirtsleeve, grinning broadly.

"Hello Dag, it's been a while," said his uncle with a smile, as his mom reached the end of the stairs and said "Dag, do you know where your father put Kat's diaper bag?"

* * *

**Sane Dag**© all rights reserved  
**Forrin**© all rights reserved  
**Kat's diaper bag**...never mind.


	8. Omake Collection 14

**This is a a collection of omake, or alternate, scenes. Each one takes place directly after Dag asks the elf if he is real, at the beginning of To Kindle Magic, the most recent chapter. None of these scenes are real - they do not _actually_ happen, they are merely amusing alternatives, often funny and/or completely irrelevant/illogical. If anyone has any ideas of their own for an omake for this scene, drop a comment, and if it's good enough, I'll put it up! Giving credit to you, of course. **

**Happy reading!**  
**Dr. Lmnop**

* * *

Omake  
Collection  
#1 – #4

**"Are you, uh, real?" he croaked in the direction of the…the…the thing that was standing in front of him.**

**#1: Meaning of Life**

"Is anything truly real; is life what it seems?" replied the elf angrily. "What is the reason we are put on this cruel planet, why am I here? What good will come of me being here! Why! WHY! Am I only here to _die_?" The elf broke down into furious sobs, and, after getting control of himself, disposed of the insolent human that had dared cause him to question his own existence.

**#2: Paradox**

Elf: "Hmm…"

Dag: "'Hmm?'"

Elf: "Yes, 'Hmm.'"

Dag: "'Hmm' what?"

Elf: "Hmm? What?"

Dag: "That's what I said."

Elf: "Hmm."

Dag: "Yes, I get it, but what does it mean?"

Elf: "What does what mean?"

Dag: "'Hmm'"

Elf: "'Hmm?'"

Dag: "Yes, 'Hmm.'"

Elf: "'Hmm' what?"

Dag: "Hmm? What"

Elf: "That's what I said."

Dag: "Hmm."

Elf: "Yes, I get it, but what does it mean?"

Dag: "What does what mean?"

Elf: "'Hmm'"

Dag: "'Hmm?'"

Elf: "Yes, 'Hmm.'"

Dag: "'Hmm' what?"

Elf: "Hmm? What"

Dag: "That's what I said."

Elf: "Hmm."

Dag: "Yes, I get it, but what does it mean?"

Elf: "What does what mean?"

They eventually created a paradox so deep and so thorough that they both were driven to insanity, muttering 'Hmm' under their breaths into their old age, rocking in a chair as ancient as themselves. _Squeeeaaak_ went the chair. 'Hmm?' went the crazy old human and elf.

**#3: Hamlet!Elf**

"To be, or not to be: that is the question. Is it more noble to suffer the curses and hexes of an unbearable situation, or to declare war on the forest of troubles that afflict one, and by opposing them, end them. To be free. To be free - as simple as that. And with that freedom ends the thousand natural miseries that elves have to endure. It's an end that we would all ardently hope for. To be free. To escape. To escape. Perhaps to dream. Yes, that was the problem, because in that sleep of freedom the dreams we might have when we have shed this mortal service must make us pause. That is the consideration that creates the calamity of such a long life. Because, who would tolerate the whips and scorns of humans for so long; the tyrants' offences against us; the contempt of proud men; the pain of forced obeyance; the insolence of officious authority; and the advantage that the humans take of the elves, when one could just release oneself with a naked sock? Who would carry this load, sweating and grunting under the burden of a weary life if it weren't for the dread of being set free - that unexplored country from whose border no traveler returns? That's the thing that confounds us and makes us put up with those evils that we know rather than hurry to others that we don't know about. So thinking about it makes cowards of us all, and it follows that the first impulse to end our servitude is obscured by reflecting on it. And great and important plans are diluted to the point where we don't do anything." The elf turned his head from looking dramatically off into the distance, and glanced at the boy. He was out cold.

**#4: robot!Elf**

"A- a- am- I- I- I- re- re- r- r- r- rea- real? A- a- a- a- a- a- am- am- am- am- I- I- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- re- re- re- re- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- real? A- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- a- am- am- am- am- am- am- am- am- am- am- am- am- am- am- am- am- I- I- I- I- I- I- I- I- I- I- I- I- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- r- re- re- re- re- re- re- re- re- re- re- re- re- re- re- re- re- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- rea- real?" The elf started to emit a faint buzzing noise, steadily growing louder, and smoke was flowing from his ears and nostrils. _Tickkk._ _Crack._ _Bzzz. Pop. Bang. Szzz. Snap. Bphszzz._ "Does- ss- ss- ss- n- n- n- n- not- t- t- t- t- t- tt- tt- ttt- c- c- cc- ccc- c- cc- c- com- com- com- cc- com- comp- comp- compute- tt- t- t- t- t- …" _KABLOOIE!_ Metal Body parts bounced everywhere. The small, wrinkly, domed head rolled across the room, coming to a rest upside-down. The mouth snickered, and the eyes shifted to look at the boy. He was out cold.


	9. A Family Reunion

**Welcome back to the wonderful world of awesomeness. I know I said that an earlier chapter, and I quote, "starts it all," but this is the chapter that _really_ starts it all. Production will be slowing down because of midterms, so don't expects to see the usual once-a-week posting. Harry-Potter-World belongs to JKR. Enjoy!**

**Till next time,**  
**Dr. Elemenohpee**

* * *

**A Family Reunion…**

**And Other Such Normal Occurrences**

Mrs. Hartwood was seemingly unsurprised to see her brother standing in Dag's workshop, accompanied by an elf. This surprised Dag even more than the appearance of his uncle, whom he hadn't seen in at least a year. His mother calmly took his uncle's coat, and asked him if he would be staying for dinner. His uncle accepted, and then whispered something to Forrin. _Crack!_ The house-elf was gone.

"Well, Dag, don't just stand there; aren't you going to say hi to Uncle Dellior? And have you seen Kat's diaper bag? No?" Dag's mom walked out of the room without another word, coat in hand.

* * *

"Umm. Hi Uncle." Uncle Dellior was a tall, heavily-built man in his early forties, with a few white hairs beginning to show on his mop of brown hair. He was fairly dark skinned, with large, rounded ears and soft, leathery hands. His smile made everyone around want to do the same, and his teeth were white as eggshells, though a bit misaligned. He was always making jokes, coaxing laughs from anyone he could, and he was a great magician. Now Dag knew why. At least about the magician part.

"Take a seat Dag, make yourself comfortable," Uncle Dellior said. "This might take a while."

"How long?"

"A while."

* * *

That was an understatement. For the next two or so hours Dag sat, mouth hanging open and eyes widening wit every passing minute, listening to his uncle describe to him a hidden world of magic.

"And it's all just right in plain sight, but hidden with magic?" asked Dag, dumbfounded.

"That's right, we can't have muggles waltzing into Diagon Alley and the like, that would be chaos," explained Uncle Dellior.

"Muggles? What're those?"

"Oh, right, I keep forgetting you don't even know basic terms. Muggles are non-magical folk, like your friends at school, and – well, most of the world."  
Dag laid his head back against the chair, digesting it all. "So, is mom a wizard- I mean witch?"

"No, my sister is a muggle; she only knows about everything because of me. When I turned eleven, I got a letter from the Salem Witch's Institute, inviting me to their school – they taught wizards too. I was living in New York at the time, with just your mom and our parents. Believe me when I say I was surprised. I hadn't shown an ounce of magic, so I had no idea what was going on. They sent a representative of the school to our apartment to explain everything to me, as I'm doing for you. Yet it seemed they had let the wrong person represent them. She referred me to another school of magic – one in England – saying that that was the place for me. It was called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and it was there that I received my magical education." Dag was hanging onto his every word. "It is for this reason that, although you reside in Florida, and would normally be sent to an American school of magic, I am going to insist that you instead go to Hogwarts. Is that okay with you?" His uncle was smiling at him, hands clasped calmly in front of him.

Dag was taken by surprise – he had no idea what was best, so why should he be asked? "Y-yeah, I guess." Suddenly a thought occurred to him. "Wait, how in the world am I going to get to England, it's expensive isn't it? And do I stay there? When Am I going to see my family?" He was getting frantic now.

"It is a boarding school, so you will be living there. You'll see your family on holidays, and summers are also spent at home. You can send letters home and anywhere else by owl – that's how it's done in the wizarding world – and receive letters and even packages in the same way. You will arrive in England by Portkey; that's an object that is spelled to transport anyone who touches it to a designated location. Hogwarts begins in about three months, so we have time to get all of your supplies. When's your birthday again?"

"Thirty-first of August. What kind of supplies do I need?"

"Let's see," replied Uncle Dellior, "I have the letter in here somewhere." He reached into the back pocket of his dark jeans and pulled out a cream colored envelope, sealed with an intricately designed red wax seal. "Take it," he prompted, handing the envelope to Dag.

The paper was soft in his hands as he broke the seal, extracting the letter from within. Beautiful, curved handwriting covered the page, the glistening emerald ink spelling out his name at the top.

Maldagra Hartwood,

You are invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, beginning the first of September.  
The list of required school items is included.  
We hope this letter finds you well.

Sincerely,  
Headmaster of Hogwarts,

Merroka Alden

Dag pulled a second piece of parchment from behind the first. It read:

_**Required for first years**_

_**Books:**_

_**Year One: Spells to Begin**_

_**Bottles of Brews: A Guide for Young Potioneers**_

_**Charmed to Begin: Charming Wandwork for Beginners**_

_**Opposing Dark Forces: Defend Yourself Against Magic Most Evil**_

_**Seeds and Weeds: Magical Plants and Their Properties**_

_**Transfigure Your Skills: Transfiguration Do's and Don't's  
**_

_**One wand**_

_**One medium pewter cauldron**_

_**A sufficient stock of quills**_

_**A sufficient stock of ink**_

_**A sufficient stock of parchment**_

_**Three everyday school robes**_

_**One pair of dress robes  
**_

The list went on and on, naming things that Dag had no idea even existed, let alone what they were.

"No need to worry about all that, Dag, we'll make the trip to Diagon Alley tomorrow, and you'll be staying with me in England until it's time to go to Hogwarts." Uncle Dellior collected the papers from Dag's hands and returned them to his back pocket.

"Tomorrow! But what about school!" Dag protested.

"Do you _want_ to stay in school till the summer?" his uncle questioned.

"Well, no, but-"

"You won't be needing to finish the year, Dag. You'll be going to Hogwarts from now on anyways."

"What about my friends?" whispered Dag quietly. Uncle Dellior looked taken aback.

"Well, obviously they can't go," he said, misunderstanding his nephew. "You can say goodbye before we leave tonight though."

Dag was silent. He didn't even comment on the fact that he'd be leaving that night. Cemeland and his family had already left to Greece for the summer – there would be no goodbyes.

"You'll make new friends there, don't worry. Now, go on up and pack, take anything you want – make sure you bring enough clothes; though at Hogwarts you'll be wearing robes."

* * *

And so, it was with bittersweet feelings that Dag stepped into his uncle's car, which would take them to the Portkey, which would in turn take them all the way to England. The goodbyes with his parents had been tearful and long, but Kat had no idea what was going on, and just looked puzzled.

"Wait, I forgot something!" exclaimed Dag. "I'll be right back!" he yelled over his shoulder, as he dashed through the doorway of his house, headed straight for his room. Looking around, he spotted what he had come for. Picking up a small silver cylinder, he placed it in a side pocket on his backpack, which he still had on.

Thinking quickly, he got a few more things from his workshop in the basement, and hurried back outside to the car. _This is going to be an interesting trip,_ he thought. Then he mentally clicked on an image of a button. _Create Character._ He mentally typed something after the button disappeared. _Character Name: Dag Hartwood._ He checked off a box in his mind. _Weapon of Choice: Confusing People._ He clicked on one more button, and slipped into the cool leather interior of his uncle's Volvo SUV. _Begin Adventure._


	10. Rally In the Alley

**Hello, hello. All places and things taken from Harry Potter belong to JKR, but just to let you know, I made up all of the names of the books from last chapter, and all of the names of the shops in this chapter. And, of course, every single character that appears in this fanfic. I may take the liberty to change things from canon that are not usually changed, but then, this isn't a usual fanifc, so you should expect it. Shout outs to all of you who commented since the last post, you are THE BEST. Anyone with artistic skills who wants a cameo? Send scans of fan art to the email in my profile! Enjoy all of the happenings in this awesomest of awesome chapters, adios!**

**Still writing for ya' guys,  
Dr. Elemenohpee  
**

* * *

**Rally In the Alley**

The Portkey trip had been odd, to say the least, but otherwise uneventful. With a touch of the enchanted empty can of Campbell tomato soup, he and his uncle had been transported through space itself to the front of a beautiful, one-floor house. The in-between had felt like a magical hook had gotten a hold of him below the belly button, and jerked swiftly. It was late when they arrived at Uncle Dellior's place, and Dag had immediately gone to sleep after being shown his room.

He was woken with breakfast in bed, served by the now familiar Forrin. "Good morning, Master Hartwood, I hope you had a pleasant night."

Dag rolled over and smiled. The bed was the most comfortable bed in the world, with a giant, fluffy comforter, a soft down pillow, and cool silky sheets. Propping himself up, he accepted the tray of eggs, toast, and a cup of orange juice from the air – Forrin had levitated it across the room to him. Ravenous after a long sleep, he dug in, relishing the gooey yolk of the egg in his mouth. "Fankf, Forrin," said Dag through a mouthful of eggs. " 'S r'lly goo'!"

The house-elf bowed and exited the room, whistling his way back to the kitchen to tidy up.

* * *

After breakfast, Dag dressed and acquainted himself with the house, the front yard, and the backyard. Uncle Dellior informed him that it was time to make the trip to Diagon Alley, for his school things, and so they got into his Volvo once again, on their way to the world of wizards. They drove to a nondescript string of shops, small and quaint, and Uncle Dellior stopped the car, parking next to an ugly green SUV. Walking up to a plain brick wall in between a hair-cuttery and an ice cream parlor, Uncle Dellior took a slim stick – _His wand!_ thought Dag excitedly – from his pocket, searched the wall for a few moments, and lightly tapped on a brick. Instantly the wall before them melted away, revealing, to Dag's building exhilaration, another large street of shops, filled with people in odd robes, and strange noises everywhere. Dag looked to his left and right, but no one else seemed to have noticed the street that had appeared seemingly out of thin air. He turned his attention back to the spectacle before him, and his heart beat rapidly.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley, Dag," his uncle said with a smile, resting a hand on Dag's shoulder.

* * *

They bought his books first, a one-stop-shop at the store Nooks Full O' Books, where there was every type of magical book available. The shop was like one extremely long hallway, twisting and turning and turning again, so that it seemed as if it shouldn't have been architecturally possible. Shelves set into the twisting walls held the bound books, the scrolls, and everything else. After being hypnotized into semi-consciousness by a large, mesmerizing tome, Dag was dragged out of the store by his uncle, to buy his school robes.

The Dream Seamstress, the robe shop, was supposedly of the highest standards, but the owner was not quite one-hundred-percent there, and she constantly got this faraway look in her eyes. After acquiring his four robes, Dag looked at the school list Uncle Dellior had entrusted him with. Next on the list was 'one medium pewter cauldron.'

He persuaded his uncle to let him get a collapsible cauldron ("You never know when it might come in handy, Uncle"), and it was with this purchase that he got his first glimpse of wizard money. He hadn't been paying attention at the other stores, but now he saw that the coins his uncle used to pay for the cauldron were of all different sizes and colors, and very different from the kind of coins he was used to.

"Am I going to need any money at school?" asked Dag as they walked away from the stall selling the cauldrons, meshing back into the stream of exotic shoppers.

"You might," Uncle Dellior responded absentmindedly, craning his neck to peer into the crowd ahead of them.

"But I don't have any of that kind of – "

His words were cut off as a gigantic _Bang_ filled the air, followed by a series of smaller explosions. The mass of people in front of them scattered, a few of the stragglers being chased by playing cards sporting miniature wings, whirring like a hummingbird's. Dag let out a snort of laughter, his eyebrows rising in disbelief. A hunched old man with a bushy white beard wearing a large, dark green overcoat shuffled out of the shop from which the explosions had come.

Yanking off his beard (_What the heck?_), he threw it into the air and snapped his fingers. The tangle of white hair suddenly turned into a small butterfly net, which proceeded to zoom through the air, scooping up the flying cards. Once the scene was free of cards, the net hovered back to the old man – who was now a young man with no beard and a head of shining silver hair – and was gobbled up by a large pocket on the front of the overcoat. The silver-haired man, who looked to be about twenty, bowed and skipped back into the shop.

Applause echoed from all around, and Dag and Uncle Dellior joined in.

"Show off," muttered a voice from somewhere in the sea of claps.

"Uncle, do things like this happen all the time?" asked Dag, still clapping. Uncle Dellior wasn't listening, however, but was instead looking at his strangely marked watch and furrowing his brow. A few seconds after the furrowing, he shook his head worriedly.

"Look, I have something I have to take care of, Dag, I'm so sorry. Take this," his uncle said, dropping a jingling velvet bag onto Dag's open palm. "Buy everything you need, and a few things you don't. No need to worry about spending too much. Meet me in front of the book place when you're finished, got it?"

"Alright. Where are _you_ going?" Uncle Dellior had already turned away, walking briskly across the street. "Wait! How do I use the money!" His uncle was already being pulled into the crowd.

"Gold ones are Galleons, silvers are Sickles, and bronzes are Knuts – the value going from greatest to least in that order!" Then he disappeared, and Dag was left alone on the busy streets of Diagon Alley, a small bag of odd coins in his hand.

_How can I spend 'too much' with just this? There's almost nothing in here,_ he thought, giving the bag an experimental shake. Tinkle. _Nope, not much at all._

* * *

He soon discovered that this was not the case, though – every time he used some of the coins, more appeared to take their place. Dag had bought everything on his list except for a wand when he ran into some trouble. "Ouch," he exclaimed, picking himself and his bags of merchandise up from where he had fallen. "Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I – "

"I kin' see ya' weren' bloody lookin' where ya' was goin', boy!" A creepy looking, thickset man stood in front of him, smelling like last week's lasagna, and looking like it too. He had more holes than teeth in his mouth, which was stretched in an angry snarl. "Next time, maybe _I_ won' be lookin' where I'm pointin' mah _wand_!" he growled, withdrawing from his puke-colored cloak (_Maybe that's what the smell is?_) a gnarled black wand, and pointing it at Dag's forehead.

_Oh no, this can't be happening,_ he thought, shock freezing him in place. _I'm going to die, right here, and I _haven't even done any magic yet_!_

"HEY UGLY, OVER HERE!" a voice called from the roof of the shop behind Dag. The big man raised his head to see who had spoken, a disgusted frown distorting his features. _Not that they need much more distorting,_ Dag thought to himself. "SO THE PIG KNOWS HIS NAME, AYE?" The voice had a slight British accent, less so than the man, and sounded young and female. "RUN, MATE!" yelled the voice, referring to Dag. Dag ran.

The large man ignored him, choosing to focus on the rooftop from which the voice had come, where he was also pointing his wand.

"Watch out!" screamed Dag, fearful for his savior; but he needn't have worried. A high pitched whistling sound tore through the air, and all of the sudden the angry man was coughing his way through a cloud of thick gray smoke that had engulfed him. Dag stared, unsure of what he should do.

"Well, mate, don' just stand there, let's get outta' here." Dag whirled around to find a girl around his own age, with short, spiky blond hair, wearing cargo pants and a loose-fitting sweatshirt. She grabbed his arm and dragged him through the bunches of people in the street, ignoring insulted shouts of 'Well _excuse_ you," and 'Hey, watch it," and "Ow!" They slowed to a stop outside of the silver-haired boy's store, panting, hands clutching their ribs, catching their breath.

"I'm Wincey – Wincey Arkington, nice ta' meetcha'," said the girl, sticking out a hand, grinning. Dag shook her small hand, still gasping for air.

"Maldagra Hartwood," he introduced himself, "but just call me Dag."

"And you can call me Wince, ev'rybody does. Close call back there, eh Dag?" She laughed, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "You here getting' your school stuff? I am."

"Yeah, I kind of just found out about all this magic stuff," he explained lamely, gesturing to their surroundings. "So I don't know much about, well, anything."

"Really? So you're family's all muggles? Ya'v never been here before?" Wincey – _Wince_, Dag reminded himself – looked interested.

"Uh, n-no, I haven't," Dag replied, feeling uncomfortable.

"Great! Lemme' show ya' around," said Wince excitedly, dashing off into the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley.

* * *

The rest of the morning flew past in a flurry of sprints from shop to shop, much buying of fun-looking objects, and a trip to the snack store. At half-past-two, Dag met Uncle Dellior out front Nooks Full O' Books. Wince had left to go back to her parents, promising to see him at Kings Cross – that was where the train to Hogwarts was.

"Hello, Dag, got everything?" greeted Uncle Dellior, relieving him of his bags of purchases. "Do you have your wand?"

"Uh..."

* * *

**I am sorry that posts have been slow, midterms kill my time. The next chapter will be posted the 20th, so hang in there!**


	11. Sticks, Tricks, and an Australian Mix

**Sorry for the late post, lots going on. The last of Diagon Alley is in this chapter, it's one of my favorites. Comment, please, it helps keep me going :)** There's another great story you should read, really very funny, fantastically written - it's called Fatestuck, written by Pokerfates, give it a read. Till next time

**The One Who Writes Oh So Frantically And Tries Desperately To Post On Time And Who Likes Reviews And Run On Sentences,**  
**Dr. LMNOP**

* * *

The wand shop, Hakkelec's, was small-looking from the outside, but once inside, seemed to stretch on forever.

"Now be warned, Dag, Hakkelec is a brilliant man—really has a way with wands—but he's completely bonkers," explained Uncle Dellior as they stepped inside.

A small ding could be heard echoing throughout the shop as the door closed behind them.

"Hm, forty-six are we? Forty-five just left. Now let's see…" An ancient-looking man with no hair appeared from around the corner of one of the many shelves lining the floor. His eyes twinkled with intelligence, and he hummed to himself as he looked Dag over. "Just as I thought, very well then — boy, come over here, let's go, let's go."

Dag hurried off to the man, Hakkelec, wondering what he was going to do to him.

"What's your name boy?" the man said, looking straight into his eyes.

"Dag - Maldagra."

"Hold out your arms, boy," directed Hakkelec.

_Why did he ask me my name if he's just gonna keep calling me 'boy,'_ wondered Dag, but he did as he was told.

"Which one's your wand arm, boy?"

"My right."

"Hmm, well, let's see, shall we… Stay right there." Hakkelec scurried off to one of the shelves, shoveled a few boxes into his arms, and returned to his customers.

"You're just randomly grabbing wands!" protested Uncle Dellior. "Aren't you going to pick some specifically for Dag?" Hakkelec seemed not to have heard him. He muttered something to himself as he placed the armful of wand boxes on the floor in front of Dag.

"Well, go on, pick one up, we haven't got all day." The old wandmaker was looking at Dag expectantly.

Unsure of himself, Dag vent down to pick a box, after encouragement from his uncle. The box he chose was worn and weathered: it had a maroon top and the base was black, but they were both peeling. Gingerly, he removed the cover and peeked inside. The wand was grainy, white streaked with gray. It was long and thin, but not straight.

"Ah, elm and unicorn hair, thirteen inches, springy. Nice for charms work. Well, give it a wave already," commanded Hakkelec sternly.

Dag waved the wand—it felt strange in his hand, like something that wasn't supposed to be there. The wand immediately flew out of his hand and poked the wandmaker in the eye ("Oh!"). "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to…"

Hakkelec wasn't listening. He had snatched up the wand before it hit the ground and placed it back in its box, replacing the lid. Musing to himself, he returned the box to its proper place on the shelf, and then walked back to Dag. "What're you waiting for, boy, pick another!" he said impatiently.

The next box Dag picked up was small, and a lot newer. It was light blue on top and a deep midnight blue on the bottom. The wand it contained was not at all like the previous one—it was short, straight, smooth, and dark brown. Dag picked it up, scared of what would happen.

"Hmm, oak and phoenix feather, six-and-a-half inches, sturdy. Works well for transfiguration—give it a wave already, boy!" Dag flicked it slightly. Nothing. "Harder, boy, harder." urged Hakkelec eagerly. Dag thrust the wand forwards, putting much more force into the movement this time.

Dag felt as though he'd stuck his hand in an electrical outlet. His skin tingled, his arm jerked, and his hair stood completely on end.

"All right, we'll try another." Hakkelec didn't bother putting away the box, instead merely putting it down next to the pile of as-of-yet untried wands.

The next four or five wands didn't cooperate either—Hakkelec's eyebrows were set alight, the lamps overhead exploded, and one of the wands filled the shop with smoke so thick that it was several minutes before they could move on to the next one. They were on the second to last wand in the pile when a clock outside donged two-o'clock.

Dag held in his hand a light brown wand, thick and of medium length. It was light and felt fight in his hand, like none of the others had.

"Yew, eight inches, supple," announced Hakkelec, looking almost bored. "Great for spellcasting. Give it a wave," he said tiredly, not even adding 'boy' at the end.

Dag confidently and slowly waved the wand, feeling as though he was only waving a hand—the wand felt like and extension of him. Golden sparks erupted from the tip of the wand, landing everywhere, yet igniting nothing. Dag was feeling light as air, like he had never felt before—it was as if he had found a part of himself that he never knew was missing. _Epic_, he thought, gazing at the shining sparkles settling on the floor.

"Hmm, yew, haven't sold a yew in years. Well, boy, seems you've found yourself a wand," Hakkelec told him unexcitedly.

Uncle Dellior paid, and they exited the musty shop, Dag beaming. Uncle Dellior explained to Dag how useful it would be to have an owl, and Dag agreed to give it a look. They walked along the street, Dag admiring his very own wand the entire way.

They arrived outside the store, hearing squawks, squeaks, croaks, and other odd noises from within.

"Here it is, Owls Etcetera — this is where most people get their owls. You could get a different animal, I suppose, but owls are the most useful."

"I'll check them all out," replied Dag, craning his neck to see inside the crowded store. He dragged the heavy door open and slipped inside. It was a lot louder inside than out. Owls were hooting, droppings were everywhere, and a few toads were loose on the back counter, hopping about.

Dag and his uncle picked their way through the filth surrounding them.

Uncle Dellior realized he'd rather wait outside, and told Dag to take his time.

Dag looked around. The only other customer was a tall boy with hunched shoulders, wearing all black. He was poking around inside a rat's cage gloomily, not paying much attention to what he was doing. "Ouch! Stupid rodent," the boy muttered, after the white rat had bitten his pinky and scurried off into the far corner of its cage. The boy shook his finger and wrapped it in his cloak, his face turning to an angry frown. He looked around and saw Dag watching him, then said "What're _you_ looking at?" in Dag's direction.

"The poor rat. Bet he's never tasted anything so disgusting," retorted Dag, thinking fast. "I'm Dag, I'm here to buy an owl—for my first year at Hogwarts."

The boy's look of anger changed to one of interest. "Really? So am I—the name's Dalham. Dalham Everforth. Which house do you think you'll be in?"

_House?_ Dag remembered his uncle telling him that at Hogwarts, there were four houses—Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin—and you were sorted into one of the four upon your arrival. "Uh, I dunno; which one do you think you'll be sorted into?" asked Dag, trying to sound like he knew more than he did.

Dalham scowled. "With my luck I'll probably end up in Slytherin, or even Hufflepuff. A bunch of evil kids or a house full of wimps, I can't decide which is worse."

"What house do you _want_ to be in?"

"Ravenclaw," Dalham muttered quietly. "My dad says I'd never make it in Gryffindor—don't have the enthusiasm, he reckons." Dag silently agreed—Dalham had about as much enthusiasm as a sack of potatoes. Maybe less. "See you at the train," Dalham mumbled, walking over to the door. "Maybe I should just move to Africa and avoid all the hassle," Dag heard him say before the door shut.

Now that he was alone, Dag decided to do what he came there to do—buy a pet, probably an owl. He checked out a few barn owls—there was a cool black one with white tipped feathers, but it was rather large, and Dag wanted one a bit on the small side. He spotted a fluffy white owl near the side of the room, away from the other animals. It looked skinnier than the others—and a lot fluffier, with less visible feathers. He started over to it when a voice at the counter made him jump.

"Tha's no owl lil' mister. Tha's a bat. An albino Australian fruit-bat ta' be exact." The speaker was tall and thin, with a mustache and goatee. He wore a long, deep purple cape that trailed behind him, gathering dust and other things. "Aren'tcha gonna ask me 'ow I'm doing then?" questioned the man with a playful smile.

"How are you doing?" replied Dag, on pure reflex.

"Well, 's been a bloody 'orrible day for business. But I meself am jus' _swell_, thanks for askin'. Now, what can I do for ya'—lookin' for anythin' specific?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I'm trying to find an owl to carry mail for me when I go to Hogwarts." The tall man opened his mouth to speak.

"—but not too big, I want a rather small one," Dag added hastily.

"Alright," said the man thoughtfully. "Are you considering all options? Would ya' like the bat perhaps?" he said, gesturing to the white creature in the corner, high up in its wire cage. It hadn't budged since Dag had first seen it.

"Does it also carry letters?"

"Letters an' very small packages," he answered, "though nothin' much heavier. But he is faster than an owl, young man. An' much calmer."

"How old is he?" said Dag, wondering if the man was trying to rip him off, although it didn't seem so.

"Only a year-an'-a-half, an' well cared for the whole time. So how about it?"

_If it doesn't work out, you can always get an actual owl,_ his sanity pointed out, _Uncle Dellior doesn't seem to be anywhere near short of money—quite the opposite_. Dag thought about it. "Okay, I'll take him," he decided.

The exchange was made, Galleons and Sickles for one albino Australian fruit-bat, transferred to a smaller cage for Dag's convenience. Dag stepped outside, and, not seeing his uncle anywhere, headed off to a place that he had wanted to visit since that morning.

It was crowded and noisy inside Silverado's Indispensible Bags of Tricks, with small children excitedly asking the owner about this and that, and making the occasional purchase. This was the shop that the silver-haired boy had come out of, in the guise of an old man. Apparently, his name was Silverado—very fitting—and he was a Metamorphmagus, which meant he could change his appearance at will, or something like that.

Dag wandered up to the front desk, gazing around at all the colorful and _moving_ merchandise.

"Hello, how may I help you? I'm Stalline," greeted the woman behind the desk.

"Hi, I was wondering if you might have some playing cards with wings?" asked Dag, thinking of the performance earlier that day.

"Ah, the Flying Cards, yes, of course, but you'll have to buy the whole Bag of Normal Objects, I'm afraid," Stalline said.

"The whole what?" said Dag, confused.

"We don't sell individual items, we sell bags of four—the different types of items are categorized into different bags. This _is_ Silverado's Indispensible _Bags_ of Tricks. The Flying Cards comes in the Bag of Normal Objects—that bag contains normal, everyday items that are spelled for mischief. One Galleon per bag—these're quality pranks."

Dag ended up buying one Bag of Normal Objects, three Special Edition Battle Bags ('Good for hallway skirmishes of all-out war!'), and two different Bags of Useful Stuff. The contents of the Bag of Normal Objects were:

One Transforming Wand

One Pack of Flying Cards

One reusable sheet of Vanishing Parchment

One Watchful Rock

What a 'Watchful Rock' was, Dag had no idea.

The three Battle Bags contained:

Five Whistling Smokestacks

One Instant Brick Wall

Three Disintegrating Alarms

One single-use Instant Doppelganger

Both Bags of Useful Stuff had no label. It was hard carry all of his recent purchases and his bat's cage at the same time, so Dag left the Bags at the front desk, telling the lady he would pick them up later. Uncle Dellior had taken his school things that he had bought, before visiting Owls Etcetera, but the Special Edition Battle Bags were rather bulky, and he didn't feel like lugging them around.

Dag decide he would go back to Nooks Full O' Books and see if his uncle was there, but he took a wrong turn somewhere along the way and ended up in a spooky side-alley, facing a dead end. Groaning, he turned around and headed back to the main street. He bumped into a short, dirty-looking man upon exiting the alley, and apologized right away. The man grabbed his wrist, jostling the cage of the fruit-bat. It still did not stir. The small man's fingers were thin and bony, but his grip was iron.

"Ever played wizard's chess, little boy?" the man croaked, his voice like dry gravel.

"N-no, n-n-never," stammered Dag, so scared he was afraid he'd collapse and drop the cage.

From under his ratty cloak the man brought forth a very small box, faded black in color. "I've got a nice set of chess pieces right here. A nice way to start off playing the game, with your own nice set of pieces," he hissed. "Very nice indeed…" The man stopped expectantly, squinting at Dag. "How about it? Twenty sickles, and they're yours—it's a steal, little boy."

Dag realized it was probably a scam, but he also thought that buying the offered chess pieces might be the only safe way to get the man off his back. "C-can I see them first?" he asked shakily, his voice cracking. The eager man cracked open the box, allowing Dag to peer inside. Black and white rooks, knights, bishops, and pawns moved around in the dark box, and the two kings and queens hid in the darkest corner. "Okay, t-twenty sickles, here," said Dag, extracting the amount from his uncle's velvet pouch and dropping it onto the palm of the man's outstretched hand. He received the box of chessmen in turn, and immediately after, the small man made himself scarce.

Releasing a breath he hadn't even known he was holding, Dag tucked the box under his free arm and started out of the array, stone alley. A small squeak came from the cage in his right hand. His albino pet was finally awake.

Dag met up with Uncle Dellior shortly after outside the bookstore, and they left Diagon Alley to return to his uncle's house, Dag smiling the whole way there. His uncle had been relieved to hear that Dag was all right when Dag told him about the alley incident. They arrived home by the time it was beginning to get dark outside.

It was the best day ever for Dag—he had been excited the _entire_ day, and he got a pet _bat_ too. Upon setting its cage down next to him after getting in bed, he started thinking of a name for it. He then decided, after almost hitting his head on the cage, that he was too tired, and would choose a name the next day. He decided to sleep on in. And he did.


End file.
